“Had you continued to dance with me, Miss Rolland, I’m sure your domino wouldn’t now be in tatters.”
Hetty whirled about and very nearly tripped on her skirt at the sound of that shiftless drawl. The marquess stood but a few feet lower than her on the stairs. He was looking up at her, grinning widely.
“You.” There was nothing she could say. He might recognize her voice. She hated it, but she had no choice. She gathered up her skirts and fled up the stairs.
“An arrogant and rude man, I grant you, Miss Rolland,” he called after her. “But you quite like my laugh and find me amusing? You are a discerning young lady.” Rich, deep humor sounded in his voice. Without looking at him, she knew he was grinning like a gambler in a roomful of vicars.
Chapter Eighteen
Lord Harry rose to kick a log in the fireplace with the toe of his boot, sending crackling embers up toward the flue.
A knock sounded on the door. Lord Harry didn’t care who was there and didn’t bother looking up.
Pottson said, “Look at this, Miss Hetty. Why, it’s a message from a lady. The lass who delivered it wouldn’t tell me the lady’s name.”
Henrietta Rolland’s folly was promptly forgotten as Lord Harry raised the soft pink envelope and sniffed the heavy musk scent.
“Ah, this isn’t from a lady, Pottson,” she said, grinning shamelessly at him. She ripped the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of pink paper, covered with a flowery script. Her eyes widened and she gave a shout of glee.
“What is it, Miss Hetty?”
“Now, I don’t want you to screech, Pottson. Here’s the way of it. I paid a visit to Lord Oberlon’s mistress as Lord Harry, of course. Her name is Melissande, and she is no lady, I assure you. It appears she’s free this afternoon for a ride in the park with me.”
“You what? Gawd, you visited Lord Oberlon’s mistress? Miss Harry no, I mean, Miss Hetty you can’t mean you’ll be riding with his mistress? If the marquess discovers it, he’ll be after your blood. He’ll want not just to thrash you, he’ll want to kill you.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m off to purchase a green velvet riding habit for my lady and secure a docile mare from Mr. Scuddimore. I just hope the mare is showy enough.”
It was a properly unassuming, yet charming young gentleman who strolled into Madame Cartier’s fashionable boutique and purchased a riding habit and matching bonnet at an outrageous price, for it had originally been destined for a Miss Caroline Busby. Mr. Scuddimore proved a bit more difficult, but after much wheedling and coaxing, Hetty secured a bay mare named Coquette a most appropriate name, Hetty thought. At promptly five o’clock in the afternoon, Hetty secured Coquette at the railing outside Melissande’s town house.
Melissande was a vision to behold when she glided into the small drawing room where Lord Harry had sat waiting for her for a good half hour.
“You wonderful naughty boy,” she said, dancing into the parlor. “However did you know my exact measurements? I vow I would have chosen no other riding habit myself.”
Hetty doubted that Madame Cartier would have let Melissande anywhere near Miss Caroline Busby’s riding habit. She was forced to admit that the green velvet riding habit, high cut, fitting snugly below her succulent breasts, couldn’t look better on another female. Row upon row of frothy white lace sprung from the green to touch her chin. An arched black plume swept in a high circle, framing the thick auburn ringlets about her face.
Melissande knew she looked glorious. She knew that this lovely young gentleman shouldn’t have given her such a gift, but after all, a girl had to enjoy herself. Lord Monteith was a charming boy, no more, and if she wished to spend a small part of her time with him well, where was the harm in that? If the marquess were to find out she drew up a moment with this rather daunting thought, then shrugged her white shoulders. Perhaps he would take her less for granted. Perhaps he would take her to more balls like the lovely masked ball the previous evening.